


Strange Pairs

by MildredMost



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Confessions, Flashbacks, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/pseuds/MildredMost
Summary: James and Thomas are reunited at last.“It is James. My James,” Thomas said, and his face as he said it made George’s breath catch.“But how can this be? Can you be mistaken?” George burst out. For this man could not be Thomas’s beloved. Someone less like a principled Naval Lieutenant George could not picture. “Your...he died, did he not? And was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. This man is…” He looked at the unconscious man on Thomas’s bed and could only think ‘pirate’.





	Strange Pairs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Terra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Terra/gifts).



“Doctor, you are needed.”

George looked up from his work and blinked at the man before him. He had been miles away. He stood and leant on his scythe.

“You’re wanted in the main field. New prisoner has collapsed,” said the man, wiping the sleeve of his shirt across his sweating forehead. New himself, George thought, for he could not recollect his name.

“Has he been beaten?” George asked.

“No. Hamilton seems to know him. He’s with him now.”

George frowned with confusion. A friend of Thomas Hamilton’s, here? It did not seem likely. He followed the man out of the shady tangle of vegetation he had been tasked to clear, and out into the heat of the day. He hoped this would be within his capabilities - though he had been a doctor back in England, he felt his medical knowledge ebbing away with every year on the plantation.

He recognised Thomas at once in the middle of the field, kneeling by the side of a man dressed in black who had his head against Thomas’s chest. Thomas had an arm wrapped firmly around the man’s shoulders.

George hastened to his side.

“What happened?” he asked abruptly, kneeling himself. He looked the man over. He was dressed like a ruffian and had the cropped hair of a convict. His eyes were open - such piercing green eyes - but he was white as a sheet beneath his sunburnt skin and was shaking. He did not speak.

Thomas shook his head, biting down on his lip.

“Let us get him somewhere cooler,” George said, noticing that Thomas himself was trembling. He could not think what this was all about. Had Thomas fought the man? That seemed even more unlikely than them being friends.

Between them they managed to pull the man to his feet. Luckily he was shorter than both of them, though well-muscled and strong. He staggered a little and Thomas bent his head and murmured to him - what, George could not hear, but his words sounded gentle, soothing. George shot a look at Thomas but could not read his expression at all. He seemed agitated but not angry, and glancing down he saw Thomas had taken the man's hand in his and had it gripped so tightly his knuckles were white.

They took him to Thomas’s accommodation - a small private space well earned by impeccable behaviour over the last ten years. Thomas laid the man on his bed, who closed his eyes at last and lost consciousness. Thomas leant over him a moment, passing a hand over the man’s shorn red hair, before stroking his cheek gently and straightened up. George watched this tenderness silently, feeling as though he was intruding; he had not seen Thomas like this before. For though they were firm friends, and this had spilled over into the physical now and again, it had been more for comfort than love.

“Who is he?” said George at last and Thomas turned to him.

“It is James. My James,” Thomas said, and his face as he said it made George’s breath catch.

_Thomas’s James._

“But how can this be? Can you be mistaken?” George burst out. For _this_ man could not be Thomas’s beloved. Someone less like a principled naval Lieutenant George could not picture. “Your...he died, did he not? And was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. This man is…” He looked at the unconscious man on Thomas’s bed and could only think _‘pirate_ ’.

Thomas was barely listening.

“They told me he was dead. I cannot guess where he has been. I will know when he wakes.”

They were interrupted by the plantation owner, Mr Oglethorpe, flanked by two guards.

“Why are you all here? Why is the new prisoner in this accommodation?”

“Did you not think to put the new man in quarantine, sir?” George snapped back immediately. “He has been felled by a tropical fever. And now Hamilton here most likely has it.”

“Fever?” If Oglethorpe had a fear, then this was it. He was terrified by contagion. “He was perfectly well when he arrived!”

“Where has he come from?”

“The Bahamas,” said Oglethorpe.  Thomas looked up, startled, his eyes wide.

George gave a sharp intake of breath for the effect.

“Then this could be any number of things. You must keep these men apart from everyone until I can distinguish what it is or you could have an epidemic on your hands.”

The Oglethorpe’s face worked for a moment, clearly torn between anger at being spoken to this way by a prisoner and his overwhelming fear of sickness. Then he nodded briefly and looked at Thomas.

“Hamilton, you must stay in here, do you hear me?”

“Sir,” Thomas says, inclining his head to hide a smile.

“I will have food brought for you. But for God’s sake stay away from the rest of us. Reid, have this hut marked and a sheet brought for the door.”

He left again, the guards with him. Thomas and George looked at each other.

“George I hope I have told you before that you are a genius,” Thomas said. He frowned a little. “But he is not truly unwell?”

George shook his head, but at the look in Thomas’s eyes he crouched and examined the man as thoroughly as he could.

“He has no fever, and no wounds. He is not starved. It is simple exhaustion, and perhaps shock. He will do very well, only let him sleep.” George stood again.

“Let him sleep when all I have longed for is to speak with him again, just once?” Thomas said, his voice breaking. But he was all happiness, the sheen of tears in his eyes. George felt a rush of affection for him and took his hand, holding it tightly.

“This is a most wonderful happening, Thomas,” he said. “So have patience. I have bought you three days at least. You can rediscover your James at leisure.”

“George,” Thomas began. “You and I…”

George squeezed his hand once more and released it.

“Your heart was ever elsewhere,” he said lightly. “As was mine. Though in my case I am under no doubt that my Nicholas is gone, and my heart with him. Please enjoy this miracle with my blessing, I beg you.”

Thomas, too overcome to speak, only took George by the shoulders and kissed him briefly on the forehead.

A sort of farewell.

 

xxxxxx

 

Thomas pressed a damp handkerchief gently to James’ forehead as he slept on. He watched a pulse jump under the soft skin of James’ throat, the rise and fall of his chest, the small movements of his eyelids. He is here, whole: heart beating, breathing, his hair shorn, his skin freckled and toughened by the sun, but alive. Beautiful.

His.

Perhaps not any more, but It did not matter.

Though it had taken years before he could think of James almost without pain, it was only because he did not permit himself to remember the physical. It had been too much to let himself think of James’s touch, his smell, the noises Thomas would wring from him with hands and mouth. But he could not hold the memories back now.

He remembered how James used to taste when he’d come straight to him from his ship, impatient and needy. Salt and sun warmed skin. He’d taste him everywhere; the corners of his eyes, his lips, his throat. Even the inside of his thighs and the hollow of his hip-bones would taste of the sea. Thomas would tease him, delay their pleasure for as long as he could until James bucked beneath him, cursing Thomas in the most colourful language the navy had to offer.

Memories began to overwhelm Thomas and he moved to sit in the corner of the room lest he shake James awake and gather him in his arms.

James looking at him across his dining table, face blazing with affection and loyalty after ordering Thomas’s father out of the house. Any poor attempt that Thomas had been making not to fall in love with him had crumbled at that moment. He had laughed from the sheer wonder of it, and ignoring a warning glance from Miranda had crossed the room to him.

It seemed strange now that he had barely considered the enormity of what he was about to do, but his largest concern had been that James might not want this too. And there had been a moment of fear when James had flinched away; a heartbeat. And then longing and trust replaced the fear on his face as he had tilted his head back up to Thomas, and moved towards him an infinitesimal amount. There had never been a kiss so sweet and so hard won.

He had not taken him to bed that night, only pressed him against the edge of the dining table and kissed him until neither of them could think.

Taking him to bed had come a few days later and had been a revelation to Thomas.

Miranda had gone to their country residence to “ensure the new housekeeper was following instructions correctly”. She said nothing to Thomas of why she was really going, only kissed him solemnly and bade him be careful. “Keep in mind the new house maid, we do not know her yet,” was all she had said.

He had not invited James to the house. A formal dinner in the frosty dining room was not in the least conducive to seduction, and that was what Thomas unashamedly planned to do. Instead, Thomas had given the staff the evening off and had taken James to dine at White’s.

They had talked of course of the Bahamas, of politics, of pirates. James had unwound after his second glass and told Thomas some stories of life at sea that shocked and amused Thomas in equal measure. And under it all there was a glorious, crackling tension between them; glances held a little too long, fingers brushing against each other as they passed the wine, the nudge of a foot. After one such lingering look Thomas had said abruptly, “I am calling my carriage and we are going home.” It had not been a question.

The house had been silent when they arrived, though candles had been left lit in the hall, and a fire burned low in Thomas’s bedchamber. Closing the door, he had looked over at James, who seemed frozen in place.

In his imaginings, Thomas had pictured James – the sailor and man of action – tearing Thomas’ clothes off, pinning him down and taking him hard. He had burned with the idea. But in reality, James seemed to need Thomas to take the lead.

That thought had made Thomas burn equally hot.

He had undressed first, quickly, watching as James’ chest hitched faster. Thomas wanted him in no doubt of how much he desired him. He stood before him, naked and aroused, and completely shameless.

James had made no move to undress himself, he only stared. Thomas crossed the room to him.

“Shall I help you?” he said, and James wet his lips and nodded.

Thomas did. He could barely tear his eyes from James’ face as he unfastened and untied and removed layer after layer of clothing. Coat, shirt, undershirt, all laid aside. When he knelt to remove the sea boots, James made a small sound of protest.

“Another time I will ask you to keep them on,” Thomas had said mischievously, and was gratified to see the flush which flared on James’ face. _He liked that idea then._

 Just as much as he liked being undressed, Thomas discovered as he drew away the last of James’ underclothes and revealed a cock as hard as his own. He stood up again, lifting his hands to draw away the narrow ribbon holding James’ hair from his face.

“Lie with me,” he said, taking James hand and leading him to the bed.

They kissed a while, Thomas luxuriating in the feel of James’ skin and the silkiness of his loose hair falling around both their faces. He ran a hand the length of his back, stroking a finger lightly against his opening until he felt James freeze.

“You do not like it?” Thomas said.

“I have never allowed…that,” James said, his breath coming fast. “It has always been the other way.”

“But do you want it?” Thomas asked softly. “Can you let me? It can feel so wonderful.”

“I…” James began and stopped. Thomas rolled him gently onto his back.

“Let me do this then,” he said, sliding down James’ body and parting his thighs. “Freckles even here,” he said with amusement, and took James into his mouth.

James bucked up and cried out. Pausing for a moment to see if this was a sign James wanted him to stop, Thomas was met with fingers tangling in his hair and his hips canting towards Thomas’ mouth.

 _Very well then_. He swallowed him back down again almost to the root, tasting the slight bitterness of his arousal. James gave a small shout and twisted his free hand in the sheets. Thomas sucked at him, using lips and tongue, stroking and cupping his balls as he did. James could do nothing but pant and moan as though this was the first time he’d been taken in a mouth, and Thomas wondered if this could be the case. Too many men made do with anonymous, half-dressed fucks in dark alleys and back rooms. It had never been enough for Thomas who loved to kiss and explore and tease.

He drew his mouth off of James’ cock and had looked up to see James watching him, his eyes dark. Spreading James’s strong thighs further, he tilted him back a little and applied his mouth to his balls. James swore long and hard; a stream of nautical language such as Thomas had never heard before. He sucked on him a little more, gripping and stroking James’ cock as he did, before moving his mouth lower and pressing his tongue to James’ tight entrance.

It had sent him quite wild. “Yes,” he moaned, writhing. _My God he was a picture_. “Christ, my Lord, _yes_.”

“More?” Thomas asked, his own heart thudding with arousal.

“Anything you want,” James managed. “Do anything you…”

"You're beautiful," Thomas said, his voice hoarse with desire. "I'll do anything if it makes you sound like that."

He bent his head again, teasing at James’ hole with his tongue, his own cock hard and leaking against his stomach. Then, pausing to wet it in his mouth first, he slid his forefinger inside James.

Aware that James was pushing back against him, pleading incoherently, Thomas took his cock back into his mouth and sucked with vigour. Rocking his finger back and forth he sought the spot inside James that would give him the greatest delight. If he could… _ah, there_. James gave a great shout and arched his back. Thomas only sucked harder, rocking his finger again and again. He leant back a little so he could take in James face - eyes screwed shut, lips apart, completely abandoned.

"I want you to come in my mouth," Thomas said, and James' eyes flew open.

"I...oh God," James said. "I can't, I..."

Thomas ignored his protests and slid his mouth over him, down to the root. James gave a strangled cry and trembled all over. Thomas could taste how close he was. Sliding a second finger into him, he finished him off.

“My _Lord_ ,” James cried out and came helplessly, eyes closed and face transported with the sensation. Thomas swallowed down his spend hungrily, putting a hand to himself in earnest as he tightened his lips around James. He loved to finish with a cock in his mouth. And Christ he could barely last a moment between the thighs of such a beautiful man. He climaxed almost immediately, spending in ribbons onto the sheets.

Recovering, Thomas pulled himself up the bed to lie next to James, stroking the coppery red hair off his face. James pulled him into a kiss.

“Good God Thomas,” he murmured. He stretched languorously against Thomas and Thomas felt his cock react with interest. _What this man did to him._

Another first,” James said. “Knowing you has not been dull.”

“You have never been had that way before?” Thomas said, feeling a little smug.

“I meant the dinner at White’s,” James said, and chuckled at Thomas’s reaction. “No; this. Together in a bed.”

“Never in a bed? Oh, I suppose you would just bend the bo’sun over the gunwale and…”

“ _Thomas_ ,” James said, his voice full of outraged affection.

“On consideration, I think I would rather not know,” Thomas said, hitching himself onto an elbow. “Now tell me Lieutenant, are you tired?”

“Not in the least,” James had said.

"Because presently I would very much like you to fuck me until I cannot stand," Thomas continued, revelling in the expression on James' face, the helpless look of desire mixed with shock. "And please don't be gentle about it."

James had looked at him for a moment before breaking into one of his wicked smiles. "My Lord," he assented with a dip of his head. "Your wish is my command."

 

 

xxxxx

 

Thomas opened his eyes, realising that he must have drifted off. Looking around, he saw James’ sea boots by the door. His heart leapt and he sat up.

James was watching him from where he leant against the wall, one arm wrapped around his waist, and the hand of the other stroking his chin. The gesture was so achingly familiar that Thomas let out a laugh. This is how James used to stand when they were debating something they disagreed on. Usually leaning against Thomas' desk, tantalisingly out of reach.

“James,” was all he said, rising and crossing over to him. He reached towards him but James held up a hand.

“Wait,” he said, his voice hoarse and Thomas stilled, a chill settling within him.

“There are things I must say,” James said, the frown Thomas remembered so well denting his forehead. “I cannot allow…”

Though he had tried not to allow his hopes to run away with him, Thomas felt these words as a sickening blow. “I apologise,” Thomas said quietly. “I cannot expect your feelings to have remained the same. It was my carelessness which destroyed everything.”

James looked up at him sharply, his eyes pained. "It's not that. I do not deserve your...”

“I am not a reward to be deserved,” Thomas said, his eyes searching James’ face. “I am not a prize for good behaviour. God knows I've exhibited little of that myself. James, for God’s sake.” He reached out and took him by the shoulders. “What is it?”

James looked up at him and Thomas could not help but dip his head and kiss him. James gave a sound like a sob and kissed him back for a moment before pushing Thomas away a little, his hands firm against Thomas’s chest.

“No. I must speak,” James said, his voice low. “It is of the utmost necessity that you have the truth.”

Thomas curled his own hands around those pressed against his chest, grasping them and tugging James over to the bed. They sat.

“Speak, then,” Thomas said, almost unable to bear the anticipation of what James might say. Thomas knew James must blame him - it was _his_ recklessness, his family that had brought this on them. In his darkest moments he had let the realisation of this almost kill him. Just as he thought he had killed James.

James closed his eyes for a moment, and began.

Thomas sat quietly and listened as the tale of Captain Flint was revealed. James spared himself nothing, gave Thomas the most unflinching account of his actions.

At first Thomas reeled from the revelations. His James, the terror of the high seas. The monster who killed men with his bare hands. His idea of James, his memories of him all fell into pieces and he struggled to put them back together.

The two sides of James, the two warring parts of his soul had been rent apart by what had happened to them. But Thomas realised as he listened that he had always known them, and he had loved them both. The darkness in James had never frightened him, it was a fundamental and necessary part of him. It was just that it had been tempered by his loyalty, his intelligence and his capacity for love before. The tearing away of that had unbalanced him utterly and Thomas felt a helpless anger for what had been wrought on them both.  But how to put this into words?

So he listened. And when James faltered, he embraced him. James tried to resist at first, as though he could not bear any comfort. But when he reached Miranda’s fate he could not help but lean against Thomas, and they shared their grief.

The part he stumbled over the most was the killing of Thomas’ own father.

“No. He does not deserve the name father,” Thomas said, feeling the old anger that any thought of his father brought up in him. “He imprisoned and abandoned me in the cruellest way he could think of. He told me he hoped for my death. I think I have lived all these years just to spite him.”

 James lapsed into silence, his head bowed. 

“James,” Thomas said, putting a hand against James’ face. James did not look up. “Lieutenant.”

James looked up then, startled. Thomas ran his hand around the back of James’ head, stroking his fingers up through the soft stubble at the nape of his neck. He tugged him forward, resting their foreheads together.

“Your beautiful hair,” said Thomas without thinking. “You have cut it all off.” He started to laugh at the inanity of his remark and James gave a shaky laugh in response.

“That is all you have to say?” James said, almost too quietly to be heard.

“What did you think I would say?” Thomas said.

“I imagined confessing myself to you many times, when I allowed myself to think of you at all; explaining the necessity of my actions. But I never quite imagined your response. Forgiveness perhaps, for you are a good man and you loved me, once.”

“I am not a deity to bestow forgiveness and absolution,” Thomas said, putting his lips against James’ hair. “You have told me and I am glad you did.”

James made a small sound at that, and Thomas gathered him closer. He still smelled of the sea.

“You can speak of this so lightly,” James said, half wondering, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I promise you, I have never felt it lightly," Thomas said. " “Every day I wish I had been careful. Miranda tried to tell me...But I was so in love with you. I couldn't seem to hold it inside."

Neither of them had been good at that, Thomas remembered. It was hard not to look at each other during the Salons, or across the dinner table, or in meetings at the Admiralty. Impossible not to kiss in the dark of unlit hallways or London streets, or in carriages with the curtains drawn; endless kisses. They had been so _happy_. So overjoyed to have found each other.

"I still cannot believe they sent you to me," Thomas would murmur against James mouth, teasing. "The Admiralty delivered you to me."

"The first moment I saw you..."

"I couldn't keep my eyes off you," Thomas said. "I was sure you'd notice."

"I was distracted by the wig," James would smile, and they'd laugh at each other and kiss, until it became something more urgent. Afterwards James would sit on the hearthrug, his head against Thomas' thigh, and Thomas would read to him until the flicker of firelight on James' pale skin became too much of a distraction and he'd lift one of James' hands to his mouth, kissing each finger till James was moaning aloud.

Thomas wondered briefly what all these bloodthirsty pirates would think if they knew Captain Flint could be overcome by sucking his forefinger into your mouth.

James looked down, lifting Thomas’s hand and tracing a finger over a cruel looking scar at his wrist then looked up, questioningly.

“You are not the only one with stories to be told, or confessions to make,” Thomas said. “But I will not tell you of that today. Though perhaps you will be treated to one of my nightmares tonight. George says they…”

“George?”

“The man who helped carry you here.”

“This _George_ has witnessed your nightmares?” James said, narrowing his eyes, and Thomas got a small glimpse of what it must have been like to confront a displeased Flint. It was a little thrilling.

“George and I, we suffered similar heartaches and similar fates. The man he loved was hanged.” Thomas’s voice broke a little, and he took a breath. He found it hard to think of the death of Nicholas, though he’d never known him. George’s face as he’d told him had been enough.

“We were a comfort to each other, nothing more. For I soon discovered nothing could exorcise you from my mind or my heart. Not your absence, not your death. And not,” Thomas said, kissing him, “This Captain Flint."

James’ hand tightened around Thomas’ wrist as he looked at him silently. Thomas wondered what he saw. A disgraced man, scarred and broken, stripped of all money and title? A weak man, who'd submitted to imprisonment all these years? He was ten years older and there was grey in his beard. Everything about who he had been was diminished. He'd merely existed all these years, while James had fought, lost, won, _lived_.

"I know I am not what I once was," he began. "I have scars inside and out. I have nightmares and I cannot bear to be in the dark. And I snore. Apparently."

“You always did that,” said James, the same half-smile curving on his lips, lighting his green eyes. Thomas was felled by a jag of want.

 "I wish..." his mouth dried. "Do you remember the night you returned from sea after things began between us? It had been our first parting."

Thomas had almost ripped the uniform from James' body as soon as he'd got him alone. They'd coupled frantically, thrusting against each other, half dressed and gasping against Thomas' dressing room door. Thomas had told him he loved him as he came, and then told him again afterwards as he sank his hands into James' red hair and kissed him until he stopped shaking.

"I wish it could be like that again, before my idiocy ruined us both. I love you. I have never stopped. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," said James. "Not your fucking fault. God, Thomas, did you think I blamed you? Never. My feelings for you were my one constant in this fucking mess."

"Can you want me still?" Thomas asked.

In answer, James leant forward and kissed Thomas hungrily. It was like a dam breaking between them. It was less a kiss at first than just shared desperation, biting at each other, tearing at the clothing that was keeping their bodies apart.

Thomas’ hands learned James' body anew. He had an earring now, a vicious scar on his shoulder, scars on his neck, on his back. And the strength of him; if Thomas had thought James was in his prime when he first met him, he had been much mistaken. Thomas ran his hands over and over his muscled chest until James was panting into his mouth.

“Please,” Thomas said desperately. James pulled him down on the bed on top of him.

“I’d forgotten,” said James breathlessly, “I thought I could remember...” Oh god the feel of him again, his skin, his smell. Thomas buried his face in James' neck, licking and sucking until James was moaning underneath him. They twisted together, desperate to feel as much of each other as they could, James wrapping a hand around both their shafts, the contrast of silky skin and the hardness beneath almost finishing Thomas immediately.

"I missed you so much," he gasped. “I can’t last,” he panted. “Oh God James, I…”

He felt his climax coming as he desperately tried to hold it back and savour the beautiful familiarity of this man, his love, touching him and kissing him and moaning against him.

The rhythm of James’ hand on their cocks became erratic. Thomas grabbed James, urging him forward to fuck harder into his own hand, his own prick aching with need. Their eyes met and the dark lust on James’ face was too much, too raw. Thomas arched again, but it was James who finished first, crying out with his release, his hand convulsing and taking Thomas over the edge with him.

They lay entwined, not quite awake or asleep as the sun began to set. They spoke together in low voices, Thomas whispering all the endearments he had always wanted the chance to again. Reassuring each other. _My love. You have been sent to me twice now._ Laughter and kisses. Exploring each other again, pressing lips to scars.

Thomas stirred from his contemplation of the scar on James’ shoulder at the sound of someone outside the door. They laid something down and their footsteps receded again.

“Food,” Thomas guessed. “Are you hungry?” If James wasn’t, then he was. He peered outside and saw what had been left there.

“Good old George,” Thomas said, lifting the covered plates. “And a bottle of awful grog too. He’s done us proud.”

They made short work of what was there, sitting side by side in the doorway to catch the remaining light. James sat easily beside him with no shirt on; such a contrast to his ways in London. Thomas loved these differences as much as he loved the familiarity. They shared the bottle of homemade wine, syrupy and potent. Thomas leant over and kissed James’ cheek, handing him the bottle to finish.

He tried to imagine a future like this. They could most likely be together with little harassment. Share their evening meal together. Work together. No one would beat them, humiliate them, flay the skin from their backs or leave them feverish in a dark cell for days on end just for loving one another. But the shadow of their imprisonment, their betrayal by the people and country they had wanted to serve, would surely taint it all. How could James settle to this after living such a life as he had? Thomas had submitted to it after the horrors of Bedlam, and then the crippling grief of losing James. But now that was gone, could he himself continue with no protest? He felt a sudden despair.

“Can you bear it, do you think?” he asked James at last. “Living here, labouring?” _With me_ , he added silently. With me.

“Bear it?” James was silent for a moment, then looked over at him, a wide grin spreading across his face. The dying light of the sun caught the earring and lit up his eyes. _Captain Flint_ , thought Thomas, and his spirits leapt.

“Not a chance,Thomas, my love,” James said, tipping the remains of the bottle into his mouth. “We're going to burn this place to the fucking ground.”


End file.
